


i'll stain your pretty mind

by kaumari



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Hurt/Comfort, Lowercase, M/M, POV Miya Atsumu, Post-Break Up, comfort is NOT from sakusa he's gone and probably doing fine, going through smth and decided to project, this is a vent fic don't get it twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaumari/pseuds/kaumari
Summary: atsumu and kiyoomi breakup. that should be all there is to it, but breaks are never clean, and atsumu's heart has never been strong.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	i'll stain your pretty mind

**Author's Note:**

> what's up i'm really going through it, so i wrote a vent fic. this is not going to be a regular occurrence. please don't be alarmed.
> 
> kita wasn't supposed to show up but. comfort characters are like that.

there's very little about atsumu anyone would describe as "quiet". or, maybe quiet isn't the word to describe it. because atsumu is quiet on the court, but it's a powerful, commanding silence. it's single-minded concentration dedicated solely to executing the best serve, set, spike he can, and nothing can distract him from that. so this isn't "quiet": it's "faded", or maybe "deflated". this is hardly someone who anyone would connect to miya, #13, or #11, and either one towers over him in this moment.

oh, how the mighty fall. fall, fall, fall in love with the wrong person, and for someone as brash as atsumu, he has a shockingly soft heart. you would think he'd learn, wouldn't you? some people never do. some people want to be proven wrong. some people get their heart broken in the process.

oh, he says it isn't heartbreak. but if it isn't, how does he explain the lethargy, the reluctance? how does he explain skipping meals, or refusing to crawl out from under his covers for two straight days? how does he explain 18 unanswered calls and 42 unread messages, pushed off to the side so he can stew in a pot of his own creation? they all mean well, he knows that. still, they remain unanswered and unread, and he contents himself with lonely silence.

oh, no one will come looking for him anyway. osamu is in tokyo, aran is in niigata, shinsuke is in the height of the growing season. they have lives that take priority over his own emotions. he can count the people who care about him on one hand—it pains him that he’s one shorter now—and even that he questions sometimes. who can he count on, who can he call closest to him, when he can’t even count on himself? his brain is static, crackling in between thoughts, and it is the only indication he has that he’s still awake. muted senses keep him under the surface, treading deeper waters than he wants to fathom.

his phone lights up again. he should’ve turned it off ages ago. why hadn’t he? he should. he needs to. he will—

oh, there’s a message from kiyoomi. no, not kiyoomi, don’t call him that. sakusa. his name is sakusa kiyoomi, and he isn’t allowed to use kiyoomi, so sakusa it is. no, kiyo—sakusa hadn’t said as much, but it’s the principle of the matter. date, break up, kiyoomi, sakusa.

the message glares at him accusingly, as if he’s the one at fault. atsumu wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s a victim, but it surely wasn’t his fault.

no, it wasn’t his fault. but was it? he’s a little much, a little overbearing, no it had to be a lot, he had to have been too overbearing, he had to have been the one pushing too much, so it is his fault after all. alright message, you win this time. resigned seems to be his default state, right alongside devastated and some measure of detached. there’s so much space in him, he might be a coffin. open his chest, let someone step inside, watch them shrivel up and die.

look at the message. it’s asking how he is. it’s asking if he’s taking it too hard, and ki—sakusa is sorry, but it was wrong to lead him on, and oh, wouldn’t that have been nice to know two years ago? wouldn’t it have been nice? but why is he angry at sakusa? it’s his fault. he cared too much, wore his heart on his sleeve, really and truly believed everything was alright. nothing was alright, was it? his contact name glares at him, kiyoomi with a heart. a tsunami crashes over his heart, a snake rises in his head. kiyoomi with a heart becomes sakusa becomes fuck you becomes don’t answer. don’t answer gets thrown to the other side of the bed. after a moment of contemplation, don’t answer gets kicked over the side.

how fucking dare he. how fucking dare he get mad. how fucking dare he get mad about something he saw coming for months. how gullible was he, to accept everything fed to him as truth, simply because he didn’t want to believe love could lie. or, maybe he’s still right. if it was never love, then he is validated. love would not lie, but if it was never love, well. there’s no reason you can’t be deceived.

he breathes in, breathes out. it warms the blanket in front of him in waves, fading as soon as he takes in another breath. fading, fading, fading away into a shell, or maybe a ghost, or a coffin, home to a shriveled heart and man. if only he could empty his static cable head out the same way, too full to lift more than a few centimeters away from his pillow. he thinks it’s his pillow. it might be a particularly bunchy part of his blanket, or sheets. he isn’t going to ruin the illusion and look.

he isn’t going to ruin the illusion of his pillow, but the illusion upholding his life has already been torn down. falling, falling, falling. and all he can do is watch the silver screen replay all his worst moments, when he lost patience or brushed him off or a hundred other things, minuscule things, that must have added up. it’s his fault. let that sink in, entrench itself, dig in its claws and teeth until he count every painful edge puncturing his heart.

another call. his phone rings, bypassing the do not disturb setting, some piano symphony shinsuke had set for himself years ago. he moves without consciously wanting to, pulled by some thread of familiarity and the desperate need for comfort. it wraps itself around his lungs, makes it difficult to breathe until his phone is back in his hand, a shaky thumb hovering over “answer”.

a ghost clamps on his wrist, makes it difficult to take that final step. it despises being revealed, being forced into the open. he wears his heart on his sleeve, but this ghost makes it impossible to say anything out loud. the resistance is icy, but it breaks as easily with only a jerk. the call connects.

“atsumu? are you crying?” he pulls himself back to his body, steps in through his chest and looks around the hollow cavity. his lungs are shuddering in time with his body, short and choked and aborted. the tears are harder to find, but they blur his vision at the bottoms and corners. he won’t shed them, probably. he can’t say anything for sure anymore.

“hey, kita-san.” his tear-laden voice matches his tear-laden eyes. everything is stuffed with cotton.

“shinsuke. atsumu, will you open the door?” stunned silence. his lungs still in tandem with everything else.

“atsumu?” muted, muffled, dim. he might be crying again, harder than he had the first night.

oh, to have someone who cares about him. it might be a blessing, and it might be a curse when this loneliness passes. for now, he stumbles out of his bed, his muscles shaken awake from idle slumber to pull him, staggering, to the entrance. he must be a sight. unstyled hair sticking up every which way, wrinkled clothes, bags under his eyes. he’d done the bare minimum to shower and brush his teeth—it’s a different type of pathetic to avoid those basic functions, and he’ll be damned if he ever gets there.

but shinsuke hardly looks at him. he hugs him instead, warm and solid, gentle in all the ways atsumu wishes he wasn’t and which he hopelessly needs to feel.

oh, to feel as present as he had in that moment. there’s something grounding about being in the arms of someone else, as if the burden of existing is easier to bear.

“you didn’t answer anyone’s calls,” shinsuke starts softly, and atsumu shakes his head, begging him to stop. he does. he always has. “ok. ok, that’s alright. we’re worried about you.”

oh, to have people who worry for him. “‘m sorry,” comes out in between gasps, and the hands on his back rub it softly, reassuringly. a voiceless “i’m here.”

“let’s get you somethin’ to eat.” atsumu doesn’t want to move. if he does, this might turn out to be a dream. if he loses shinsuke’s touch, he may lose the thread keeping him present. “atsumu, watch the step.” he lifts his foot instinctively. they’re walking backward, carefully manuveured through the hallway to get back to his room. shinsuke says nothing about the state of his bedroom, or about the notifications in red on his phone.

“don’t go,” he whispers, cracking into the pieces he’d been trying to hold together with a threadbare blanket.  _ ‘i don’t want to be alone again,’ _ is what he’s pleading for shinsuke to hear.

“i won’t, i’m only goin’ to your kitchen. i’ll be back soon.” untethered. his hands are cold, clamped on his knees. he isn’t sure he’s seeing anything through the haze of his thoughts, replaying  _ ‘i’ll be back soon’ _ as a mantra for sanity. he’s latching onto anything for some semblance of comfort, he knows this, but he can’t bring himself to be sorry.

“i’m back. here, it’s hot.” his hands are pried from his knees and settled around a bowl, warm to touch, not nearly as hot as shinsuke made it sound. he wishes it were hotter. hot enough to numb his hands, to lose some of these feelings. “careful,” shinsuke warns, and he listens unconsciously, stilling his hands to keep the broth from falling out.

he’s urged to eat, but he isn’t being forced. one sip turns to two turns to ten turns to the whole bowl, eagerly drunk to feel alive again, and when he turns to shinsuke again, he’s slightly less glass-eyed. shinsuke smiles, the corners soft.

“i won’t ask. but we are worried about you, atsumu.” he stresses the  _ ‘are’ _ , makes it present. “so let us help you.”

oh, if only it were that easy. he’ll allow it for now, if only to give this shriveled corpse a chance to step out of his chest. but he can’t promise anything for the future, can’t promise that he will be as easy to handle or as willing to take a hand. but right now, he’s so tired. he’s so tired, and shinsuke is so warm, so just this once, he’ll allow it.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @kaumaridevi on twitter i guess


End file.
